Battle for The Abyss (26 page)

‘Aye, lad.’ The Space Wolf nodded, a glimmer of their old rap-port returning briefly to his features.

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Cestus glimpsed the prone form of their prisoner as Brynngar turned back to his ‘work’.

‘Do only what is necessary,’ the Ultramarine warned, ‘and do it quickly. I am leaving Laeradis here to... assist you if he can.’

The Apothecary shifted uncomfortably beside Cestus, whether at the thought of partaking in torture or the prospect of being left alone with Brynngar, the Ultramarines captain did not know.

Brynngar looked over his shoulder just as Cestus was leaving.

‘I will break him,’ he said with a predatory gleam in his eye.

‘WE HID BEHIND Bakka Triumveron to keep the
Furious Abyss
from sending torpedoes after us. We’re heading on course for a warp jump vector as we speak.’

Kaminska was, as ever, on station at her command throne on the bridge. Saphrax was there, also, straight backed and dour as ever. Cestus had headed there alone after leaving Laeradis with Brynngar in the isolation chamber. In the scant reports he’d received from the admiral regarding information gleaned from the assault boat pilot, Cestus had learned a little more of what had happened at Bakka. They’d lost the other two assault boats during the extraction, swallowed up by the fire of the
Furious
’s engines that had turned much of Bakka Triumveron 14 into a smoking wasteland of charred and twisted metal. The tactical readouts aboard ship had disclosed precious little, save that it was chaotic and not to plan. One of Guilliman’s edicts of wisdom was that any plan, however meticulously devised, seldom survives contact with the enemy. The primarch spoke, of course, of the need for flexibility and adaptation when at war. Cestus thought he should have heeded those words more closely. It appeared, also, that the Word Bearers had been forewarned of the Astartes’ attack, a fact that he resolved to discover the root of. He considered briefly the possibility of a traitor in their ranks aboard the
Wrathful
, but dismissed the thought quickly, partly because to countenance such a thing would breed only suspicion and paranoia, and also because to do so would implicate the Astartes captains or Kaminska.

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lWhat of our prisoner, Captain Cestus?’ asked Kaminska, after consulting the battery of viewscreens in front of her, satisfied that all necessary preparations were underway for pursuit.

‘He is resting uncomfortably with Brynngar,’ the Ultramarine replied, his gaze locked on the prow-facing viewport.

‘You believe he knows something about the ship that we can use to our advantage?’

Cestus’s response was taciturn as he thought grimly of the road ahead and of their options dwindling like parchment before a flame.

‘Let us hope so.’

Kaminska allowed a moment’s pause, before she spoke again.

‘I am sorry about Antiges. I know he was your friend.’ Cestus turned to face her. ‘He was my brother’

Kaminska’s vox-bead chirped, interrupting the sentiment of the moment.

‘We have reached the jump point, captain,’ she said. ‘If we hit the warp now, Orcadus has a chance of finding the
Furious Abyss
again.’

‘Engage the warp drives,’ said Cestus.

Kaminska gave the order and after a few minutes the
Wrathful
shuddered as the integrity fields leapt up around it, ready for its re-entry into the warp.

ZADKIEL PRAYED TO the bodies in front of him.

The Word Bearer was situated in one of the many chapels within the lower decks of the
Furious Abyss
. It was a modest, relatively unadorned chamber with a simple shrine etched with the scriptures of Lorgar and lit by votive candles set in baroque-looking candelabras. The room, besides being the ship’s morgue, also offered solace and the opportunity to consider the divinity of the primarch’s Word, of his teachings and the power of faith and the warp.

Prayer was a complicated matter. On the crude, fleshly level it was just a stream of words spoken by a man. It was little wonder that Imperial conquerors, without an understanding of what
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faith truly was, saw the prayers of primitive people and discarded them as dangerous superstition and a barrier to genuine enlightenment. They saw the holy books and sacred places, and ascribed them not to faith or a higher understanding but to stupidity, blindness, and an adherence to divisive, irrelevant traditions. They taught an Imperial Truth in the place of those simple religions and wiped out any evidence that faith had once been a reality to those worlds. Sometimes that erasure was done with flames and bullets. More often it was done with iterators, bril-liant diplomats and philosophers, who could re-educate whole populations.

Zadkiel’s belief, the root of his vainglorious conviction, was that the Throne of Terra would be toppled, not by the strength of arms wielded by the Warmaster, nor even by the denizens of the warp, but by faith. Simple and indissoluble, the purity of it would burn through the Imperium like a holy spear, setting the non-believers and their effigies of science and empirical delusion alight.

Zadkiel shifted slightly in his kneeling position, abruptly aware that another presence was in the chapel-morgue with him.

‘Speak,’ he uttered calmly, eyes closed.

‘My lord it is I, Reskiel,’ the sergeant-commander announced.

Zadkiel could hear the creak of his armour as he bowed, in spite of the fact that he could not see him.

‘I would know the fate of Captain Baelanos, sire,’ Reskiel continued after a moment’s pause. ‘Was he recovered?’

Doubtless, the ambitious cur sought to supplant the stricken assault-captain in Zadkiel’s command hierarchy, or manoeuvre for greater power and influence in the fleet. This did not trouble the Word Bearer admiral. Reskiel was easy to manipulate. His ambition far outweighed his ability, a fact that was easy to exploit and control. Unlike Ultis, whose youthful idealism and fearlessness threatened him, Zadkiel was sanguine about Reskiel’s prospects for advancement.

‘Though mortally injured, the good captain was indeed recovered,’ Zadkiel told him. ‘His body has gone into its fugue state in
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order to heal.’ Zadkiel turned at that remark, looking the sergeant-commander in the eye. ‘Baelanos will be incapacitated for some time, captain. This only strengthens your position in my command.’

‘My lord, I don’t mean to imply—’ ‘No, of course not Reskiel,’

Zadkiel interjected with a mirthless smile, ‘but you have suffered for our cause and such sacrifice will not go unrewarded. You will assume Baelanos’s duties.’

Reskiel nodded. The World Eater had shattered the bones down one side of his skull and his face had been reinforced with a metal web bolted to his cheek and jaw.

‘We have lost many brothers this day,’ he said, indicating the Astartes corpses laid out before his lord.

‘They are not lost,’ said Zadkiel. Each of the slain Word Bearers was set upon a mortuary slab, ready for their armour to be removed and their gene-seed recovered. One of them lay with his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Zadkiel closed them reverently. ‘Only if the Word had no place for them would they be lost.’

‘What of Ultis?’

Zadkiel surveyed the array of the dead. ‘He fell at Bakka,’ he lied, ‘and the Scholar Coven with him.’

Reskiel clenched his teeth in anger. ‘Damn them.’

‘We will not damn anyone, Reskiel,’ said Zadkiel sharply, ‘nor even will Lorgar. The Emperor’s gun-dogs will damn themselves.’

‘We should turn about and blast them out of real space.’

‘You, sergeant-commander, are in no place to say what this ship should and should not do. In the presence of these loyal brothers, do not debase yourself by forgetting your purpose.’ Zadkiel did not have to raise his voice to convey his displeasure.

‘Please forgive me, admiral. I have... I have lost brothers.’

‘We have all lost something. It was written that we would lose much before we are victorious. We should not expect anything else. We will not engage the
Wrathful
in a fight because to do so would use up time that we no longer have to spare, and our mission depends on its timing. Kor Phaeron will not be late, so nei-186

Ben Counter – Battle for the Abyss

ther will we. Besides, we have other options when dealing with the
Wrathful
.’

‘You mean Wsoric?’

Zadkiel clenched his fist in a moment of unsuppressed emotion.

‘It is not appropriate for his name to be spoken here. Make the cathedral ready to receive him.’

‘Of course,’ said Reskiel. ‘And the surviving Astartes?’ ‘Hunt him down and kill him,’ said Zadkiel. Reskiel saluted and walked out of the chapel-mortuary.

Certain that the sergeant-commander was gone, Zadkiel gestured to the shadows from which a clandestine guest emerged.

Magos Gureod shuffled into the light of the votive candles slowly, mechadendrites clicking like insectoid claws.

‘You have received Baelanos?’ the admiral asked.

The magos nodded.

‘All is prepared, my lord.’

‘Then begin his rebirth at once.’

Gureod bowed and left the chamber.

Now truly alone, Zadkiel looked back at the bodies lying arranged in front of him. In another chamber, together with the many crew of the
Furious
who had died, were the enemy Astartes, slain in the engine room and the cathedral. They would not receive benediction. They would have refused such an honour even if it could be given, because they did not understand what prayer and faith meant. They would never be given their place in the Word. They had forsaken it.

Those Astartes, the declared enemies of Lorgar, were the ones who were truly lost.

AN HOUR AFTER the
Wrathful
had entered the warp, Cestus went to the isolation chambers. Upon his arrival, he found Rujveld still dutifully in his position. This time, though, the Blood Claw stepped aside without being ordered and offered no resistance, it being ostensibly clear that the Ultramarine would brook none.

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The gloom of the isolation, cum interrogation, chamber was as Cestus remembered it, although now, the air was redolent of copper and sweat.

‘What progress have you made?’ the Ultramarine captain asked of Laeradis, who stood at the edge of the room. The apothecary’s face was ashen as he faced his brother-captain and saluted.

‘None,’ he hissed.

‘Nothing?’ asked Cestus, nonplussed. ‘He hasn’t yielded any information whatsoever?’ ‘No, my lord.’ ‘Brynngar—’

‘Your Apothecary has the strength of it,’ grumbled the Space Wolf, his back to Cestus, body heaving up and down with the obvious effort of his interrogations. When he turned, Brynngar’s face was haggard and his beard and much of his torso were flecked with blood. His meaty fists were angry and raw.

‘Is he alive?’ Cestus asked, concern creeping into his voice, not at the fate of their prisoner but at the prospect that they might have lost their one and only piece of leverage.

‘He lives,’ Brynngar answered, ‘but, by the oceans of Fenris, he is tight-lipped. He has not even spoken his name.’

Cestus felt his spirit falter for a moment. Time was running out.

How many more warp jumps until they reached Macragge? How many more opportunities would they get to stop the Word Bearers? It was irrational to even comprehend that one ship, even one such as the
Furious Abyss
, could possibly threaten Macragge and the Legion. Surely, even the mere presence of the orbital fleet above the Ultramarines’ home world would be enough to stop it, let alone Guilliman and the Legion mustering at nearby Calth.

Something else was happening, however, events that, as of yet, Cestus had no knowledge of. The
Furious Abyss
was a piece of a larger plan, he could sense it, and one that posed a very real danger. They needed to break this Word Bearer, and quickly, find out what he knew and a way to stop the ship and its inexorable course.

Brynngar was possibly the most physically intimidating Astartes he had ever known, aside from the glory and majesty of
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the noble primarch. If he, with all his bulk and feral savagery, could not break the traitor then who could?

‘There is but one avenue left open to us,’ said Cestus, the answer suddenly clear, even though it was an answer muddied with the utmost compromise.

Brynngar held Cestus’s gaze, his eyes narrowed as he fought to discern the Ultramarine’s meaning.

‘Speak then,’ he said.

‘We release Mhotep,’ Cestus answered simply. Brynngar roared his dissent.

MHOTEP SAT IN quiet contemplation in the quarters made ready for him aboard the
Wrathful
. As ordered, he had not left the relatively spartan chamber since his incarceration after he had vanquished the
Fireblade
. He sat, naked of his armour, in robes afforded to him by attendant Legion serfs, long since departed, in deep meditation. His gaze was fixed upon the reflective surface of the room’s single viewport, poring into the unfathomable depths of psychic space and communion.

When the door to his cell slid open, Mhotep was not surprised.

He had followed the strands of fate, witnessed and understood the web of possibility that brought him to this point, this meeting.

‘Captain Cestus,’ muttered the Thousand Son with an air of prescience from beneath a cowl of vermillion.

‘Mhotep,’ Cestus replied, taken a little aback by the Thousand Son’s demeanour. The Ultramarine wasn’t alone; he had brought Excelinor, Amryx and Laeradis with him.

‘The assault at Bakka Triumveron failed, didn’t it?’ said the Thousand Son.

‘The enemy obviously had prior warning of our intentions. It is part of the reason I came here to meet with you.’

‘You believe that I can provide an answer to this conundrum?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Cestus replied.